


Monarchy of Mycroft

by LelianaVance (orphan_account)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Slavery, Anal Fingering, Bad John, Civil war Sherlock, Consensual, Dark John Watson, Dark Mycroft, Dark Sherlock, First Kiss, First Time, First Time Blow Jobs, Gay Sex, General Mycroft, Historical, Holmes Brothers, Johnlock - Freeform, King Mycroft, M/M, Male Homosexuality, Mind Palace, Mycroft, Mycroft Being a Bastard, Mycroft IS the British Government, Mycroft Runs the World, POV Irene Adler, POV Mycroft Holmes, POV Sherlock Holmes, Porn, Porn With Plot, Sergeant Lestrade, Sherlock - Freeform, Sherlock Being Mean, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes - Freeform, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson Feels, Sherlock Loves John, Sherlock's denial, Sherlock-centric, Slave John, The Blue Carbuncle, Virgin Sherlock, alternate universe sherlock, watson - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-19
Updated: 2015-03-02
Packaged: 2018-03-13 19:43:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 11,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3393953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/LelianaVance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Slave!lock story that charts Sherlock and Slave-John's fated first meeting amidst a war-torn backdrop governed by Mycroft. </p><p>Slowly building up towards a grand romance. Keep checking back over the weeks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Unwelcome Arrival

**Author's Note:**

> Starts with a POV from General Mycroft but read on and witness the great meeting of minds when Sherlock first lays on eyes on John and a wonderful relationship slowly blossoms.

It is said, when one consigns himself to His Majesty’s service, he is but an instrument of England’s mighty arm and to be done with as the King pleases. Not so, for one man.

Four hundred redcoats at his disposal, the General could do pretty much as he, himself, pleased this far into the Colonies. The tireless Rebels had long since dispersed to the four winds, these backwater islands were his and his alone. To do with as he desired. Long had been the battling, many the dead or dying, more so the injured. Rest and rejuvenation was what was called for. Word had not been sent back to England yet. The General wanted time to bask in his mastery of the battlefield, his keen observations and meticulous planning. He wanted this land, for a while at least, to be sterile of both contemptuous Rebels and pompous Englishmen. If there was any pomp to be had, it would be by his wit it would be dealt. Grand plans deserved grand recuperations.

And so he shirked his military duties, let loose the men and walked the marshy perimeter breathing in the sweet smell of victory. For a time, all was peace and perpetual bliss.

“General!” A bushy sergeant bellowed from afar, his words lost in haggard breaths. “General Holmes, sir!”

General Mycroft Holmes had little patience for this man in particular, this spineless turncoat who had sung like a choirboy when faced with musket and an honourable death. He paid him no mind. The sun caught the canopies here ever so sweetly it was almost as if one could actually perceive photosynthesis in action. Such was the grandeur of these remote, uncivilized islands. Boots squelched hurriedly behind him.

“I am of a mind to put you in stocks Sergeant.” The General stated in a voice little more than a whisper. “What in heavens is it? Why must you continually dog my every waking moment?”

Lestrade had caught up with him now, both of them now stood beneath the constantly shifting shadow of the overarching canopies. Too short of hair and with beady little eyes, Lestrade would be more suited to farm labour instead of the dealings of war. Little more than five foot five he had to crane his neck to look his General in the eye; eyes that seared into a man, sought out secrets that he had never even shared with a mother or a whore after a particularly debauched night. The Sergeant had swigged a bottle before his coming and yet he still felt uneasy and intimidated. He anxiously scratched at his chin, avoided eye contact as frequently as possible.

“Well what is it? Speak man!” General Mycroft bellowed.

“It’s Him sir.” Sergeant Lestrade replied through wheezy intakes. “He has arrived.”

At that, the General stiffened. Leaning in closer, close enough to grab the lapel of the shaking Sergeant he asked a question in the tone of one who knows how best to get beneath a subordinates skin. “You mean to say, Sergeant, that you have waited this long to confide in me that with which you have known for the past two hours? Is that what you are telling me, your General?”

Beads of sweat and goose-bumps took a hasty hold of the Sergeant. His eyes became unfocused, unsteady and unsure as to where to sit. They flitted to the boots of the General, the sliver of sea seen through the bushes, the thin rays that pierced the canopies, and then to the face of judgement.

“I…I came right away sir! He has only just arrived this morning. Word had only-”

A swift backhand sent him sprawling. Mycroft loomed, his wig and hat noticeably dishevelled. Silhouetted he took on the countenance of something void of colour, something monstrous and final. Lestrade grasped at a reddened cheek, gasped at what was to come.

“Do you think me some back alley urchin? Liable to bow to such despicable attempts at falsehoods? You’ve been at the ale. Swallowed the bounties of which the fearless fought and died for. You! You who kissed the dirt and pissed on your dead brothers. You stink of it.” With a wave of a white gloved hand, two armed soldiers stepped forwards. “Make an example of him. Stocks. Three days. When a letter is addressed to me, it is to reach me within minutes. The dirt on your coattail Sergeant. It is dried. You have been shirking, sir. You’ll shirk no more. Ten days!”

The General had always been stern, erratic and harsh beyond measure but news of His arrival did little to assuage such moods. Lestrade would see the blade that was for sure. Mycroft Holmes was never one to hurry, never one to move at such a rate that would display his infirmities, of which there were many, but this expected, if sooner than thought, arrival put him at a disadvantage. Crushing the Rebels had been like a game of chess, one played with a child, with pawns of flesh and bone and a King draped in finery a thousand miles away. This, would be an altogether different challenge. Curious glances followed him as he limped back towards his large tent, whispers would follow. Lestrade would die.

He was too late. The dignitary had arrived in all his courtly splendour. Black as night, black as sin. With false smile and a fool’s wit he won the soldiers closest to him over. He had spotted the General of that there was no doubt; he chose to ignore him. Delighted in it. He wore the mask well; shaking hands and offering words of encouragement. Somehow they did not see it. Maybe it was the lameness that three weeks without combat bestowed. Maybe it was because he slipped them coin. Maybe it was because he really could talk a man into taking his own life. Four minutes he stood without being acknowledged. Four minutes! The esteemed General who brought the unruly Colonies to heel left waiting like some lapdog minister. Stormy-blue eyes then finally locked onto his cadet-grey. The pale dignitary mock bowed, tilted his head and smiled a devilish grin. The General spat at his feet.

“Something in your throat brother?”


	2. Reliable Intel

Quill raced along paper, danced through looping vowels and shot along harsh consonants. With an unmatched elegance did the General conjure letters and sentences. Well unmatched until, his brother began his own letters. His scrawls could have lifted dresses, dropped breeches and dethroned kings. A table, oaken and old and a little too similar to the General’s, had been requisitioned and placed opposite. Between stanzas their eyes met, the tension palpable and electric. They had not shared a word since Sherlock’s arrival. All the bluster had escaped Mycroft like an uncorked bottle. He had plans, contingencies, back-ups for sure, but he held them back just as his visitor did. Stalemate. The two of them locked in silent meditative battle. As always.

At length, both quills fell onto desk, the blots having run dry and words did finally escape thin lips.

“What is it you are doing here?” A baritone not unlike the General’s questioned.

The General balked, rose to his feet and placed hands upon desk in attempt to appear imposing. For a moment he forgot it was not an easily manipulated soldier that sat before him but a brother with whom quarrelling had become an art form. “What in God’s name do you think me doing here? Tending to hogs? I am conquering the last known vestiges of savagery. Gifting land unto the King. What is it you are doing here, brother Sherlock? There are little excitements to be had here. No wild-goose chases, no lost puppies, no grand conspiracies.”

“Boredom, you are right, has ever been my toil.” Sherlock answered, thin pale fingers drumming on the desk. “Not so now however. I have found a higher calling. A greater purpose.” His voice was like a well conducted choir, each instrument a vocal cord singing in harmony with every pronunciation and pause. The General, in response, looked bemused. 

Mycroft sat calmly back down, pouring wine into a glass as he did. He did not offer. Shuffling a sheaf of papers he stifled a laugh. The candlelight caught the contours of his face, played shadow puppets on a puppeteer. “Playing dignitary. That is one such vocation I never thought to see you inhabit. Does it please you to see their smiles as you condescend? Have you not learnt that in this world to truly have reach is to have influence? To gain power is to sit atop many. Simply put, playing as you are you will die alone and have nothing to show for it. Nobody to mourn you. I have won.” 

Sherlock began to laugh, chuckle even. The strangeness of the act distorting his marble face, disturbing black curls. “You are attempting to make a name of yourself. You wish to be the Knight Errant in a tale so bland it is exhausting. To have power dear Mycroft, is to have complete confidence in the self. Have you? More importantly, have they? Those men out there. Do you honestly think these redcoats of yours will hold this speck? That they will combat the hordes mustering twenty miles east of here and succeed?”

The General’s eyebrows rose at this, fell swiftly back down. “Lies? Is that really how you wish to scare me brother?”

“Truths are far more terrifying.” Black curls bobbed as he rose to thin but strong feet. “You will do well to heed my words brother. I shall not hold them back for long.”


	3. Misdirection

The ruse had been successful. Mycroft’s pride had run its course and boiled over until word to mobilise the battalion filtered through camp. The soldiers, the uncouth rabble he had expected them to be, had exploded into disarray as one found his musket, his coat, his blade and so on. Panic soon became contagious. Sailing uncontested through unwashed bodies, Sherlock sought out his true prize. 

The General’s camp stunk of disease, piss, ale and manure. Sherlock threaded a path through the muck and grime deeper into the encampment. A few of the men hoped to hide in tents, shirk off the upcoming battle by playing dead. Many were herded by musket. Dressed as he was, nobody questioned his presence. In actual fact, it appeared to please them.

“You there.” Sherlock spoke to one such sweaty and uncouth private. “Where are the slaves?” 

The soldier, redcoat all tatters and caked with mud, smiled a toothless grin. “Can’t you smell them sir?”

Farther and farther he went into the city of tents, geniality and all pretence lost. The chaos of war rose, embraced and suffocated like a blood-lusting miasma. These men, as they now were, did not know of dignitaries let alone cordiality. They now knew only of fire and death. He exchanged his thick black woollen robe for directions. 

In chains they sat. Skin hues ranged from cocoa-bean to coal. Hands and feet manacled. All connected. When one moved, he pulled taut the chains of another and unwittingly jerked him forward. Sherlock noted the despair and void that inhabited their dejected eyes. He would help them if he could. It is not that he is a nice man but rather that he cannot bear an unfair fight. After all, where would be the challenge? White-skinned, the note had explained. Four such slave pits did he search until he found his objective. Mycroft had stationed four men to keep watch. 

Even from this distance Sherlock could discern something unique about the man. A natural defiance. Forcing them to wear only soiled undergarments, both England and Mycroft hoped to strip the humanity from them. Put them back in the dirt amongst the hogs. It appeared to work on the majority; sallow and haunted they looked like an artist’s depiction of spectral horrors. He however, had a certain spark about him. The rebels did not explain why they desired him freed, but Sherlock thought it something grand and worth sticking around for. The war had bored him four weeks into the fighting. He hoped this would add a new wrinkle to proceedings. 

With slightly greying brown hair the white man could have been anything from thirty to forty-nine and yet a certain youthful charm still shone even through the layers of shit, mud and piss. Maybe it was the bright blue eyes. Four men. Four soldiers trained to kill rebels. He turned back the way he came. 

Odds are never in your favour. That is a lesson to which one must hold himself to. Sherlock retraced his path through the encampment scrounging what little armaments he could scavenge. A hurried soldier drops more than he cares to admit. It only took ten minutes to locate items of use and hurry on back. After all, the moment had been prepared for.

“Excuse me!” Sherlock shouted upon hurried approach in a state of alarm as best to attain their attention. He gained ten feet. “You do know that the General has called for mobilisation? There is talk of rebels amassing.” A further seven feet. And then, within three feet he stopped and whispered loud enough for both soldiers and the prisoners to hear: “Are you not required to put such specimens down?”

The prisoners stiffened, eyes filling with hate. The guards crowded around him. Eager and mistrustful. Easy targets. 

“No one is to approach the slaves unless accompanied by written declaration by General Holmes. Do you hold it?” It was the ugliest of them that asked, brawny and with eyes like sour milk. Sherlock hoped he would be the first to die. 

“I am afraid I do not. But would you humour me with a single question before I leave?” They neither agreed or disagreed. “Nothing too complex. I have often wondered on the act of murder; what is the feeling one receives as expiration takes a man. Is it glorious? Tempestuous? Hideous? Have all four of you killed?” On and on Sherlock rambled bringing them further and further into his control.

The boasting of redcoats was well known and slowly they, one by one, approached within touching distance of Sherlock as he continued inquiring of death. It was then, as the attention of the guards was otherwise detained, that Sherlock’s plan began in earnest. Lestrade, having been rescued by Sherlock on his return trip, handed out pistols. One to the White Man, two to the nearest of the black men, the last he held onto himself.

They fell like rocks in a river, like the living in a noose. It was awfully loud. Sherlock sidestepped theatrically, bowing as one might at the culmination of a play and lead had flown true. He approached the muscular white man at once, studying the tanned tones of his body, the resilience in his eyes, the hint of audaciousness. 

“The White-Man.” Sherlock stated, “Mister John Watson was it? And what is it that makes you so special?”

A smile. “I know their secrets.” He answered brightly, “Secrets from both sides.”


	4. Revelations

Months had passed more or less in the same fashion; the polishing of unarmed pistols and the incessant digging. They dug graves and shitholes, shitholes and graves. Being shackled to so many, a man begins to lose himself; become part of a machine. Ten pairs of hands. Twenty bodies baking beneath a blistering sun. John Watson had been captured a believed deserter, would leave as a monster. The fifteen hour days of non-stop manual labour had changed him. Not just his body, which was well-toned and bulging, but his mind too. Silence can kill just as well as bullets. If a man is subject to no communication for a great deal of time, his mind splits and offers a second voice. Two of his brothers-in-chains had gone that way. They muttered and swore under breath, became slaves to not only His Majesty but also to their own minds. John studied and calculated, forced himself to count men, muskets and tents. He listened to every snatch dialogue within earshot. Kept himself busy. 

He knew Lestrade by the derisive remarks shared by the guards that were stationed around him; foolish, traitorous and snivelling. John had watched, hunched over as he was on that day, when he had been placed in the stocks. Occurrences such as this amused him. A slave’s life was often dull; the same shit on a different day. Lestrade wriggled like a child as the soldiers lifted him off his feet to stop the dragging of ankles. They punched him a few times in the chest when he was secured. John didn’t care so much for that. Hitting a man like that was a sign of weakness. If you were to hit a fellow you best look him in the eyes and let him see it coming, let him see if he deserves to dodge or return fire. 

This black haired man though, he was new. John had watched as he had threaded through the agitated soldiers as they rushed to and fro. He was calm, calculated and had a touch of the devious about him. Watson found himself interested in this black sheep of a man, found himself studying the ebony curls that hung daintily over a long pale but appeasing face. There was something about him that was off. He had not the look of His Majesty’s army. John was happily amused when the man engaged the guards in conversation and a flintlock dropped in his lap.

“That one.” A voice had instructed. “The ugly one. On the count of three.” It was Lestrade. Straining over a callused shoulder John caught sight of two of his brothers holding similar weapons. He smiled. 

In unison they fired. The man danced to the side and bowed arrogantly as the redcoats fell. He did not wait for a second but rather approached John instantly. A metre apart, they looked quizzically into each other’s eyes. Calculated met curious. Curious met calculated. 

“The White-Man.” Sherlock stated in an accented flourish, “Mister John Watson was it? And what is it that makes you so special?”

A smile. “I know their secrets. Secrets from both sides.”

He then introduced himself as Mister Sherlock Holmes, brother to the general. He stressed their equal hatred for one another, poked at the ridiculous wig he wore and then became serious. Cold.

“Tell me now, what did you really do? Enemy of rebels and England alike, you must have done something truly salacious.” Sherlock bent over him, casting John in his shadow. “Share, will you?”

John shook manacled hands, looked up expectantly. His brothers did the same; two of whom shook flintlocks above their heads. Hot as John was, what with the sun glaring down onto his bare back, he liked to let this Sherlock stew. They smiled at one another for a long time before Sherlock stepped closer, close enough to whisper into John’s ear.

“I do not care for your life. Any life, for that matter. You tell me your secrets and I weigh their worth. You tell me scintillating scandals and I let you go. Oh and bear in mind, my brother and his men will be back in an hour or so and not best pleased.” As he spoke he pointed to the bushes at the northern end of camp, long pale fingers that appeared almost feminine in their smoothness. Sunlight caught them, made sparkling silver of them. “Angry and full of adrenaline and you’re the first thing they will see. Slaves and traitors.”

John had had many masters. Had bowed before both lord and farmer. His once sensitive skin had hardened over the years of lashings, had become leather-like and pockmarked with scars, gashes and calluses. His mind however, remained sharp. He had always known to what master he could expect leniency and which would lash with little regard, his judgement of a man had always been true. He exhaled deeply. 

“Them too?” He motioned towards his brothers. Sherlock nodded. “I killed the King.”


	5. Regicide

John Watson stated it as simply as commenting upon the weather. He killed the king. Even to a high functioning sociopath like Sherlock, that took time to settle. This man here, chained and bound in the middle of the Colonies, a whole world away from England killed the king? Sherlock chuckled despite himself. This Watson had balls. Lestrade looked dumbstruck as if learning that there was actually a king somewhere out there had been a grand secret. 

“You mean to tell me that you committed regicide on our dear beloved George? As part of a troupe, I guess; circus? theatre? Ha. Do you really think to net me with such audacity? You are something quite extraordinary Mister Watson.” Sherlock paced casually around the slaves, internally categorising every little nuance of their physique, mind-set and current condition. From just a side-glance he could tell seven of the ten had been Mandingo fighters; scarred and haunted as they were. Eyes like twisted souls. The other two had been gentlemen once; even now they held themselves upright and with a touch of dignity, even amongst all this filth. One played the violin. John was a picture book. Learned and of high birth, for sure. Background in medicine perhaps, Sherlock mused as he caught glimpse of ink beneath scars. A fragmented insignia of some regimental corps if he was correct. An infantryman would have died before being captured. A high ranking official would have been treated accordingly to his rank. A man of medicine then.

“A physician? Apothecary to His Majesty is that what you were?” He inquired coming to stand in front of John once more. “Doctor in the throne room with a vial of poison, is that right?”

John smirked in reply. “Not too far from the truth. The king’s court is a nest of vipers, every man bears his stinger. Mine just happened to hypodermic.”

Lestrade stepped in closer, having recovered the iron key from the ugly guard, and relieved John from captivity. Attaining the key had been a pleasure, Lestrade had made sure to spit upon the face of the soldier as he dug deep into his pockets. For as long as the Sergeant could remember this scarred brute had made his existence a continual nightmare. A disgustingly arrogant man by the name of Anderson. He then saw about freeing the rest of the prisoners. 

“My brother intends to assume the monarchy then. If not in name then in influence. Excellent! You wait insufferably for a ship to sail by and two come at once!” Sherlock became giddy, span on the spot with arms outreaching before resting before Watson. “Well John, this shall be fun.”


	6. Unrest

Lestrade led the way through the marshlands, thirty-nine freed slaves, Sherlock and John following. He appeared far more confident and responsible now that he had slipped the guise of the fool. An air of authority now permeated the air around him. Sherlock was still the exuberant leader of this escapade, John noted, but Gregory Lestrade had reclaimed his dignity. He cut a direct swath through the bushes heading ever south.

The weather had changed for the worse; black miasma threatening storms. John and the other thirty-nine of his brothers were still only dressed in undergarments; Lestrade advising them to make good of the time they had rather than waste it only attiring themselves in the red of the enemy. “Red was a terrible choice was it not? Hardly suited to this kind of island warfare.” He noted as they left the camp. John grunted in assent.

“Designs of the illustrious Mycroft I would wager. Always the pompous of us both.” Replied Sherlock.

When the rain finally fell and the terrain swelled, they were under the relative cover of the vast canopies that seemed to coat the island. The deluge quickly drenched the freemen. Water pooled in clothing, trickled down tanned chests. Sherlock made every attempt to keep John ahead of him. Ever since he had seen the fellow on his haunches in the dirt that morning, he had felt the pull of something elemental, something unquantifiable. It was as if this had all happened before, as if the two of them had always been on either end of a long rope stretching across infinity. The sensation both mystified and terrified him and Sherlock was a man who hated that which could not be thoroughly analysed. John Watson was an enigma, one in which he decided to break. Kingslayer or not.

“You secreted Mister Lestrade into your brother’s service simply for this.” John suddenly stated as he ducked beneath an overhanging branch. It was not a question. “This has been well thought out. You must care for secrets very much, Mister Holmes.”

“Sherlock, please. You assassinated the king Watson, I think pleasantries well beyond us. And, to speak plain, I abhor secrets. That is, the ones I am not hoarding myself. And this one,” Sherlock replied with a glint in his cobalt eyes, “Is the finest of them all. I think John that you and I will become good friends.”


	7. Alternate Route

Sherlock slowed the pace when Lestrade informed him of their distance from the rebel’s scout camp. Six men. Alert and wary. John had spent the journey trying to communicate with his recently freed brothers but most spoke different languages and so an impromptu sign-language was their only means of conversation. The two who had held the guns during their escape acted as go-betweens after the former gentleman attempted to translate, as best as they could, John’s words. He told them that an equally vicious enemy lay before them although small in number. Men who would, if given the chance, report back to a larger force and place them back from whence they escaped: in the iron chains of defeat. You are free men, John explained, what comes from now on is a choice of your own making but these men will see us away from such tyranny. Sherlock watched it all from the corner of his eye, entirely bemused by it all. 

Luckily for them, no blood was to be spilt as Sherlock stopped the columns momentum outright. 

“Make no mistake, I would use all of you as barter if it served me best, however, I suspect John here values your continued existence much more than I.” He knew little of them understood. He spoke directly John. “We will not go that way. I would rather sidestep all those superfluous fools who think me some malleable pet.”

Lestrade noticeably balked. “Are you quite sane? How in the world will we ever leave this inconsequential speck? What about the darn coin?”

Sherlock turned on him, coolly said: “Do you put so little stock in my abilities Gregory? Mycroft is not the only one with grander designs at work here. John here, just makes them all the more sweeter. As for coin I could not care less, you however, will be compensated above what we agreed.”

Lestrade rolled his eyes, growled in assent. John stiffened, had time to question his initial thoughts on this mysterious man. Perhaps he was not the dark angel he at first believed.

“I don’t expect you will tell John what it is you plan to with him?” John asked plainly.

Sherlock waved the slightly annoyed Lestrade over, whispered something into his ear and before long he was leading them down a new path towards the coast at a safe parallel of the camp. As they went, Sherlock moved alongside John.

“You see John, you are the hand who tore the mortality from our great King. The only one of us with certain facts about the incident, the man who could topple the would-be-king that is my brother. In essence, you are a mere but otherwise important piece in a game that he and I have been playing for such a long long time.” John noted the giddiness that blossomed in Sherlock as he spoke, flourishes of his delicate hand to stress the odd word.

The sound of an explosive retort stopped them dead in their tracks. Everything seemed to slow down, blur and swirl so much so that John thought himself underwater and looking up through sun-dappled glass. The dream-like aspects of it all defied what was really happening, what those dull sounds really meant. A few of his brothers fell and then so did-

“Sherlock!”


	8. The Game

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry in advance. 
> 
> Sherlock and John's fate will be explored in the next chapter, stay tuned.

Travelling by horse had always irked Mycroft. It really should have suited him well, raising him above all others as it did but he did not like the lumbering motions of four-legged travel. He likewise should have been absolutely infuriated by Sherlock’s sleight of hand but a small part of him found it amusing, pleasing in fact. The Game had been going so easy for so long he had thought his brother out of sorts, knowing that was not the case caused a small smile to crease his exhausted face. 

The General’s soldiers had been in high spirits as the flow of adrenaline and the chance of a-murdering coursed through icy-veins. They now appeared downcast and a little sinister. Mycroft did not like the look in a few of the dirtier rogues, never looked in favour upon insubordination. After all, it was he that now had the final say in all matters relating to the crown. The lie would last for a few more months for certain but sooner or later the so-called illness that had taken the king so erroneously would be found out. Parliament would learn that their Royal Highness was nowhere to be seen. Mycroft alone knew of King George’s last resting place; the two men who had done the digging had turned up mysteriously floating in the Thames. Loyal servants tended to the “meals” and “needs” of their king. The plot would thicken before it fell apart and by then he had designs to name himself king and take his rightful place atop a crumbling country and bring it back from the brink. The English would flock to a strong, firm hand. The French would pepper him with suitors. Rome would surely contest everything but that was what they did. He had little patience for godliness. 

“They’re gone General!” Some lowly private reported to him once they had returned to a terribly dishevelled camp. “The prisoners, sir. All of them.”

That did strike a nerve. 

“The white one. Him too?” Mycroft asked knowing the answer but just needing to hear it aloud, to put a face to the increasing disasters befalling him. The private replied in the positive and the General had him hanged. That sent a message. There would be no insubordination in this camp, not while Mycroft Holmes still had breath. All the angst escaped the majority of the redcoats, only to be replaced by uneasiness; a trait he found far more malleable. 

Sherlock had taken his queen, it seemed. It would not do well to delay in response and so he dispatched a small firing squad before returning to his tent. The many sheaves of paper lay scattered about the place. No doubt further work of his childish sibling. Lighting a candle, he sat down to continue a letter he had begun that very morning. It was a communique to a nearby friendly force that occupied the smaller island to the South. Originally, he had sought to order a small-scale retreat and slowly begin his celebrated return to England. Now, however, he amended it and asked for a matching firing squad to make camp upon the shore and keep a weathered eye for an insurgent. Shoot on sight, he wrote. 

For the past twenty years he and Sherlock had been playing a game of one-upmanship on one another; people were pawns in their schemes, mere tools to hurt the other. He could not remember the fatality account nor cared to. He presumed ninety-nine per cent of them were by his hand. Sherlock, although he was loathe to admit it, relished an audience. Mycroft knew his greatest weakness, a thing Sherlock himself did not know; a deep dark hole bore through his very being, a lonely emptiness that consumed him. Mycroft, ever since he was a child, could feign interest in people, assimilate himself amongst them and earn both trust and friendship. Sherlock however, just could not speak anything but the truth. He bore the brunt of the beatings of their childhood; their father a man who failed to appreciate a five year old correcting his grammar. For someone so sociopathic, he craved someone to see him being it but simply could not connect with people. 

Two great minds, two differing paths.

“So you have taken Mister Watson,” He laughed. “Two broken men to bury, then.”


	9. Wound

The gunfire erupted in cacophony of thunder. Many of the slaves fell like stones tossed into a lake; their descents swift, final. Lestrade was waving his arms about at the forefront of the column, Sherlock, having moved close to John to communicate did not see it coming. It is times such as these that true character is revealed; secreted traits about a person thrust to prominence amidst instances of turmoil. John, a man who had already undergone the most heinous acts of inhumanity at the hands of redcoats and Mycroft, displayed his true colours, the colours of valour as he leapt in front of the incoming bullets. That connection he had felt upon their first meeting, that indescribable sense of deja vu he had at first dismissed as dehydration or the like, suddenly became taut, fragile and he just knew that danger was incoming.

He took two to the shoulder before the firing squad had had to reload. Some however, just ran at them, bayonets raised and cries reaching octaves near unintelligible. 

The distance as it was allowed time for Lestrade to stagger over. John still stood, stoic and protective before a man he barely knew, his blood splattered upon both ground and more starkly on Sherlock’s anaemic cheek. For what felt like aeons but was in actual fact less than a heartbeat, Sherlock came alive in the manner of which only the greatest minds can ever do. He surveyed and plotted, schemed and took stock of the situation, collated and conceiving a suitable evacuation. The redcoats drew nearer and Sherlock was keenly aware of the swiftness of which the others upon the higher ground could reload.

“You men. You are men are you not?” He bellowed at the flailing slaves that did not know whether to flee or stand their ground and so only succeeded in continual suicidal uncertainty. “How had the iron corrupted your wrists? How long did you envision English necks between black hands? And here you are presented with such desires and you balk. Do you deserve freedom? I can spirit you from this place but only if I am alive. You want to live a life, a true life, then you will fight.” 

John was at the brink; his mind a net only receiving and retaining snippets of what was occurring around him. He leaked both in mind and body. Lestrade, amidst this all, draped John’s left arm over his shoulder and so, with the other firmly over Sherlock’s, they fled just as soon as the adrenaline-imbued slaves ran at their attackers. They did not look back. The slaves did. Curses in a handful of languages met their ears; Sherlock understood them all and disregarded them just as easily. I had warned them, he thought, I am not a good man, not when there is a mystery to be unravelled. 

By nightfall they had evaded their pursuers, no doubt in part due to the valued efforts of the slaves. Lestrade was noticeably affected by the slaughter. Sherlock often forgot the humanness he occasionally wore on his sleeves, the intermittent show of emotion. 

“It was necessary.” Sherlock explained simply as if commenting on the weather or a document of law. “How long would they have lived truly? A month? Two at best? No, John, you and I are far more important and so is our business.”

Lestrade stiffened at this, the moonlight playing contours on his stubbled face. “Your Game you mean.”

Conversation died after that. Either Sherlock could not be bothered to further explain his actions or Lestrade had nothing to say, in any event, the journey held an unseemly atmosphere from then on. John would infrequently grunt and say some foreign word to which only Sherlock would mutter yes okay, well done. Lestrade followed Sherlock now, not knowing their new destination. In all the years he had worked alongside this pale ethereal sketching of a man, he had witnessed some truly terrible times but never slaughter on such a grand and instant style. The death of redcoats was one thing, they were animals, but freemen? That was something else entirely. 

For the first time in his career, the thought of coin had never been so far from his thoughts.


	10. Retreat

Two days she had been living amongst muck and grime. Two long days with not a soul to talk to, manipulate or seduce. She supposed it was preferable to the noose and a damn sight better than having to be paraded up Fleet Street like some common crook. The air was thick and heavy, got stuck in her throat as if the very place wanted to shuffle her off a dubious mortal coil. Water lapped around her submerged feet, washed up both upon wooden boat and what constituted as sands in these parts. The gunfire had abated.

Irene Adler supposed she better suit up. 

They came not long after she had returned foot to boot. Running like headless chickens and carrying extra weight. They had apparently been successful, to some degree. The third man looked familiar although she could not quite place him underneath all those scars and bruises. He was wearing little more than a loincloth and looked half-dead. Lestrade had an air of melancholy, a miasma that seemed to pervade and ripple about him. Some squabble? Sherlock, of course, looked concurrently pained and ecstatic, the boredom held once more at bay. Black curls stuck to a sweaty forehead; a mind that dwarfed her own hidden somewhere beyond.

“You’re early.” She pointed out, coming to stand before them, hands placed on curvaceous hips. “And I do not recall you inquiring if I would like company.” Her head motioning beyond them, to the sounds of many feet in pursuit.

“Now is not the time, Miss Adler.” Lestrade intoned, his eyes lingering for a little too long.

She dismissed him, her eyes staying on Sherlock. She ignored the bloody patch on his cheek, could discern it was not his own. “One day you will enact subtlety into your schemes Sherlock and that day I shall grow a so very large prick.”

“I should expect half of Court would enjoy that.” Sherlock replied with a trademark smile.

“Push her out,” He motioned towards the boat, “I have hold of him.” 

Irene could smell the unmistakable musk of war; that sickly mix of sweat, blood, piss and dirt as Lestrade came alongside her. He made great pains to make sure he brushed a breast as he passed. On three, they pushed it from its sandy anchor and just out into the water enough for Sherlock to amble after it. John was delirious as they put him inside, spouting nonsense about the King. Lestrade was still upset, had taken to gazing at the water that now surrounded them. 

“Treason that,” Irene remarked after the island fell away behind them, “Well would be if there was a king to be treasonous about.” They both turned on her, suspicious. It was not too difficult for her to ascertain Sherlock’s purpose when they had stumbled out of the bushes with an extra man. There had been courtly murmurings of discontent for a while now, she had heard them all and found the through lines that all missed. “You forget I have fucked Sultans, parliament is but a pack of mewling kittens in comparison. To soar as I have done, a keen sense of observation is key. I thought we were past this, Sherlock. How many times do I have to misdirect you before you acknowledge my brilliance?” She offered him a tantalizing smile, memories of their first meeting playing back in her mind. They had been enemies then, were still, on occasion. 

“Then, please explain your deductions.” Sherlock replied disinterested, his hands propping up John’s head, his eyes ascertaining the damage. It seemed the wounds were far greater than he at first thought for his inherent devilishness had dispersed. For the first time in a long time, he bore a face fastened with seriousness.

Running a hand through long red hair, she began. Irene highlighted that dark day, two months past where she had been caught red-handed with a fat dignitary’s purse of coin. She had done far worse in an illustrious career that had, on more occasions than he would have liked, put her at odds with Sherlock. Still, it was not that specific criminal offence but a great various collective that saw her in irons. The King, living at the time, had, amidst a great many protestations from lords across the lands, finally heard enough of the Red Woman and sought to put her name to myth. I rebuked him, Irene took great delight in telling them, on two occasions. The day of her hanging came quick, the few nights she spent in the cell before so, were dreary but not without their surprises. She had tempted guards and, by the end of her first night, eaten more than most in incarceration. Irene did not tell Sherlock of the fear. The great chasm of nothingness which was to come after, that entrapped her mind as the other prisoners fell into restless slumbers. In such silences, great minds seek to fill them. Hours and hours would pass as she contemplated the void that awaited her. Thoughts ranging from the grand and inspiring to the damned and the terrifying. She likewise did not tell them of the hopelessness she had found in herself there. Those cells, unlike a great many, had been inescapable and she dared not express that feeling of vacancy that befell her as this became apparent. To surrender that to another great mind would be like placing the pistol into his hand. Would Sherlock have been able to escape? She often had wondered. 

“Miss Adler?” Lestrade asked after she had fell into a state of silence. He acted as the prompt.

“It would have to be something so splendidly atrocious for you to have come to me.” She continued, embellishing with dainty hands. “Whispers from my Little Misses still came to me through the cracks in the stone. Women, to men, are like the public houses you can never steer to far from. And you drink of them too much, words spill forth like froth. The King’s illness was a secret I grasped months before now. Your arrival at my cell that day and this man here now just confirms my suspicions. It seems all of Mycroft’s bluster really has had merit. This man, this John, I assume, was the knife?”

Lestrade ogled her with adoration and admiration as she spoke, as if she had cracked the code of life, Sherlock nodded his head as she spoke as if it was obvious.

“I guess I was a little overzealous, overplayed my hand did I not?” His tone was sarcastic but she did not hear it, perhaps chose not to. She had often been a bait easily coordinated, a tool to be used when seductress outweighed detective. 

“Only to the most perceptive, of which there is few in London.” Irene added almost complimentary. 

Sherlock sighed, taking his eyes from John’s prone form for the first time since they had gotten into the cramped wooden boat. His eyes had a touch of severity in them, twin-warnings perhaps. He knew what she was like, could tell she was weighing her options now that she held one of the most lucrative secrets in all the world. He now just needed to reel her in.

“I expect you will be wanting further coin?” He inquired.

“I would like to be Queen.” She said with a wry smile before adding, “But I shall settle with mountains of gold, the look on your scum brother when his plan is foiled and, this is the best part, that the great Sherlock Holmes needed my help.”

“As I recall, it was I who spirited you away from the rope in the first instance.” Sherlock answered with a smile. “And it was by poison the king perished, not knife.”


	11. Restless

The seven were no place for a woman; locked aboard a wooden cell adrift in more water that thought possible, with sex-starved sailors aplenty. Irene made great lengths to find a hide-away hole as soon as stepping aboard the Blue Carbuncle. Bearded men ogled and grabbed at her more blatantly than Sherlock’s lapdog Lestrade. Coarse and rough, fat and hairy. She found a spot beneath the lower-decks second staircase, this ship being one of those vast three-mast galleys. It was dark and secluded, out of view from most angles.

Irene only wandered the deck late in the early hours of the morning when the most boisterous of the sailors had fell into a hammock with a half-drained bottle. The sun caught the waves most alluringly at that time and it was like staring into an euphoric abyss. The captain, a man toothless and scarred beyond measure, had tried his hand at her on no fewer than nine occasions but a word to Sherlock had stopped that dead. He needer her and that had its advantages. Usually she would have taken the convenience of a higher-classed citizen amongst such a rabble but just the thought of lying with the runt of a man made her feel dirty. That mouth on her... 

“He has been down there since we boarded,” Lestrade remarked, coming to stand beside her at the prow, thankfully dispersing such harrowing thoughts. “Not like him to worry about another’s condition.”

“ Aren't you prickly? I am sure it is the investment he is worried about; his big plan. This John holds is a man of great import to him.” She replied.

He grunted, looked at her hungrily; eyes tracing a path from ankles to head. Imperceptibly, to him, she shuddered under his gaze. At length, she left him there standing alone and unsatisfied. She would have wagered a house in London upon him savagely going at his penis that night. Sometimes it was repulsive being as elegant as she was; men can be beasts and she saw the eye of one in Lestrade and all aboard this testosterone-governed vessel. London would not come quick enough. 

The next day she sought out Sherlock, conversation beyond the plain and tiresome.

“What is it about all this that has you so… focused?” Irene Adler asked him as he poured a cup of water into the seemingly unresponsive lips of the prone John.

“It is the great ordeal, the fantastical transformation; the moment of great trial.” He replied in one swift proclamation as he turned to face her. He looked tired, bags beneath eyes so unwavering as he spoke. “Mycroft thinks his plans are all but concluded. Believes me to be at my most vulnerable.”

“And you think your illustrious brother will not seek us out?”

He smiled at this, a genuine smile that looked out of place, alien. She did not know what to make of it. “Quite the opposite in actuality. He will send out mercenaries and assassins to quell what we have roused. Take the rival's king, as it were. Re-establish himself.” And then he did another motion Irene Adler had never before Sherlock Holmes do: show an inkling of compassion, as he wiped at John’s brow. She could discern the oddness about him. The inherent off-ness that oozed from one whom had forever been stoic, secretive and isolated. Eyes that had hardened at her softened at John, hands that she had wanted so very much to run the length of her body touched John’s without pause. Unlike her however, John was an unresponsive reciprocate to his touches; she would have howled if he decreed it, John only muttered in discomfort. 

“I remember him.” She stated as she got to her feet. “The man whom the king sought medicinal attention from. Ask yourself, what made him do it, before you fawn dear.” She leant in closer, so close that her breath tingled upon his ear. “I do hope this new form of entertainment you have so recently discovered is a mere flight of fancy, that it does not get us killed. It is not like substance abuse.” She spoke slow, elongating each and every syllable until it became intoxicating. “It. Is. Complex. To. Those. Untrained.”


	12. Awakening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First Kiss!

The Blue Carbuncle was tossed to and fro like a rag doll, towering waves crashing against well-worked wood; shipmen ran across a flooded deck to complete insurmountable tasks. The storm had waylaid their passing almost as soon as they had hit open water, spirits had subsequently fallen as if it were an omen. These were tough men however, and used to the hardships of sea and had the bulging tendons to prove it. They did their duty with little grumbling.

In the dark depths of the ship, somewhere hidden and out of the way, Sherlock tipped a cup of water into John’s crusted lips. They were alone, save for the incessant drip that seemed to plop onto the top of Sherlock’s head every five seconds; Lestrade had gone to seek out what served as a food aboard the vessel and Irene to escape the leers and clutching female-starved hands. Confined in almost darkness, Sherlock fought against the juddering of the ship to keep John watered and fed. 

“What made you do it?” He repeated during the hours of which the two of them were alone, “Why would you? It is not as if you and I had known each other…” long, he was going to say but that was not right, they may have not known each other before now but he would be lying if he denied the inherent kinship he felt towards the man. Anger flushed through him and he struck the wood; Sherlock Holmes never liked the unquantifiable. He dealt in hard facts, deductions and truths. This, this – whatever this was – simply did not compute. Emotions, tightly guarded inside a skeleton unlike all others, had begun to thaw. 

“Stop that.” John muttered. “If you’re to bloody yourself after all this, then why did I bother?”

It was then that a mind that had been plagued for its entire existence with cultivating and juggling thousands upon thousands of thoughts stopped dead; faltering in between plans to compose a new melody and schemes to keep Irene Adler in check. Such thoughts fell into a blackness that had never existed before, plunged into a fresh ravine that had torn up the ground surrounding, what he liked to call, his Mind Palace until only John remained.

“What were you thinking?” Sherlock roared, his hands clenching and unclenching. “You had no right to take such a risk. Do you know how much work has gone into this? And you take it upon yourself to leap before a bullet; for my benefit!”

“It is my own life and I choose to do with it what I will. I do not know you Sherlock Holmes and yet I would have leapt before that bullet on any given day.” John replied as he pulled himself into a seated position. “There are things even you cannot control.”

Close as they were the tension was palpable, electric even, as anger sparked and rebuffed at resoluteness. At length, Sherlock softened and sat back beside him offering further cups of water. John accepted.

“I suspect you would like me to thank you?” Sherlock asked.

John laughed, the act doing of which, succeeded in stirring his staunched wound and increasing the pain. Sherlock flitted over him like a nurse, albeit one all dressed in black and with eyes as cold as steel. Pale hands pushed him down, placed pressure on the wound. Their faces were inches away.

“Do I amuse you John? Because that is not my intention.”

“I do not expect gratitude Mister Holmes I only did my duty. Nor do I think you capable of such an act.” John said, his breath washing over Sherlock’s pale face. His breath, Sherlock had time to think, smelt of iron and mud, sweat and faintly of tea as if he had been drinking some that day rather than months ago. Inherently English.

“You would be right, I never thank anyone.” Sherlock’s stormy-eyes found John’s sky-blue. “Nor do I do anything expected.” 

Selfish as he was, Sherlock disregarded the pain that flexed throughout John’s body as he put his own on top of it; his hand holding him down, fixing him to the floor. He had never had such a want before, never experienced a sensation such as this and yet he felt the magnetic pull that emanated from this John Watson as if he were a drug he could not refuse – none of which existed. It was as if new neurological pathways were opening up, tributaries that fed only into the parts of his mind that accounted for desire. Sherlock Holmes had always been a man who had had wants but never in this savage manner; he sought power, respect, entertainment and idolization not companionship. That moment when the bullets flew all round him had just kept playing and playing in his mind; John’s taut body soaking them up one after another to save him. Him! It was entirely abhorrent in its perplexity. 

Was it the man he found himself craving or the mystery?

John did not halt his advances just stared wide-eyed as Sherlock’s lips pressed against his own. He did not fight it and instead responded in kind and that connection that had propelled him into taking the bullet for this relative stranger strengthened and tingled throughout his entire being. He closed his eyes in ecstasy as the moment lengthened and lengthened and even when Sherlock stuck a wandering finger into the seeping wound on his chest he did not protest – rode a wave of euphoria that transcended all. The love outweighed the pain.

Then quick as a flash, Sherlock pulled back and stormed off without a word, his face an indiscernible chunk of marble; John's wound bled freely as he watched him go.


	13. The Associate

Ships, sloops and galleys of all sizes lined, or were within rowing distance, of the makeshift wharf; a collective of His Majesty’s Man-of-Wars the pride among them. Even at this distance, as the men went about loading and unloading all around him, General Mycroft could discern the forty-four cannons that adorned their port-sides. He smiled knowing that whatever sought to get in his way those cannons would see them from this world. His eyeglass hovered on them briefly before locating the lone rowing boat that was docking rather than leaving. His new associate, it seemed, had arrived.

Ever since that troublesome day that Sherlock and his poodle had escaped the firing squads, Mycroft had been on edge and it was only four days past that he began his inquiries about a man that sort. He wrote to an upstart pirate to whom he had shared dealings with before this war began and Blackbeard had replied in a red-scrawl denoting the location of a rifleman who, he was told, was the best killer off a roiling deck. Not so greedy as one of my own men, Blackbeard had remarked, not lazy and likes the kill. Mycroft sent a man, a Lieutenant Anderson, to seek out this hunter of men. He too, had heard of this man during his time in London, had caught the hushed whispers in many an alleyway remarking upon the second most dangerous man in London. A few Lords had, apparently, been casualties of his rifle.

“You will, I am quite sure, find this man un-agreeable to anything we propose and that is when you will require tact. I want this man standing right there before the week is out. No amount of excuses will save you from the rope, do you hear? If these revolutionists are given a single inch they will rouse the very rebels we have spent many a man to quell. Go now, be swift.”

Anderson had left and within two days had sent word that a meeting would be forthcoming. 

Putting away his eyeglass, Mycroft stepped forward to meet him; he could wait no longer. The man moved slowly as if deliberating every single step for some minute sign of treachery. His face was an unseemly concoction of pale and purple; the effects of too much ale making itself visually apparent on a slightly bulbous face. Beady brown eyes looked Mycroft up and down.

“General Mycroft?” He inquired, wiping a sweaty hand on his trousers, offering it to him at length. He showed as much desire to shake hands as Mycroft did.

The General nodded. “Mister Moran. You’re,” He scrutinized the way of his dress, the threadbare trousers that were almost transparent from frequent wash, the ruffled shirt and unbuttoned coat. “Not what I expected.” 

Anderson, having followed the shabby gentleman, came to stand beside Mycroft and whispered something into his ear. He nodded, sighed and waved him away once more. Moran watched it all with a manner of disinterest. 

“It seems that matters of greater import than…well you have arisen. You are heralded as a man-hunter, is that true?” Mycroft knew the answer before he spoke; could discern the defeated detachment in the way he held himself, low to the ground and unflinching in the presence of his betters. A mere killer; nothing more, nothing greater. That would suit him, he wanted a pit-bull to Sherlock’s poodle. 

“I’ve killed many men if that’s what you’re asking. Some frail and easy, others lofty and tough. Go down, all the same.” His London accent was thick and, here amongst the lavish green foliage, alien.

Mycroft suppressed turning up his nose. “I do not suppose I should have to tell you that those that I wish you to crush will be difficult to murder, that they are also enemies of His Majesty, King George, enemies of England?”

He nodded his head back down the path. “You’re man said as much. Said they’d be plenty of coin for such killings, is that right? Is George’s purses eager to spill?”

Mycroft stepped forward, his single step swift and direct. He looked down at the man, his eyes stern and formidable. His hand fell upon the pommel of his sword and Moran noted that fact. “People like you sicken me. I have met many a man who dares to speak ill of the King and seen them lashed, roped or shot full of bullets. It is true I have need of a man such as you, my many duties stretched as they are, but do not think you are the only such man in this world. Coin? You will receive such a mountain of it, you will think yourself a Sultan. Respect? You will never attain, not least until the clothes you wear are more befitting a man serving the desires of his King.” He leant in towards the Moran’s ear. “Kill them swift and before it becomes tricky to do so. London, is where you should start.”

Mycroft left without another word. His spirits had risen after Moran’s scolding and he walked almost imperceptibly unhindered as he entered his grand tent. The stack of papers had dropped and only one letter remained. It was from the Duke of Cambridge and related to Mycroft’s celebrated and joyous return to England. Of course, Mycroft would make it big and expensive as best to denote his new-found power and influence. The peasants would flock and wave their hands to the man responsible for their continued freedom. The Game was ever coming to a final head. 

Sherlock, he thought, you have your man and now I have my own.

Sebastian Moran stood silent as his employer waltzed off, suppressed the urge to storm in after and put a pair of hands around the crane-like neck. Instead, he turned about to face the sea and the ship that would see him back to London. Aboard that large galley, in a cabin just for him, sat a chest full of murdering wonder; a rifle as large as a man’s arm that had quelled many an existence. 

Moran did not mind so much the conversational whipping he had received but the insinuation that his contracts would not be handled as quick as possible was a deprecation he would see rectified. No man in all the world was as best equipped to bleed a man upon the land than him…well maybe one but he died a long time ago. 

Fell.


	14. Denial

Sherlock never came to see him again. The euphoric and spontaneous kiss had at first felt a miracle but with every passing day that he did not make himself known, felt more like a curse. The sea still raged around them, the wind still tore at taut masts and the sailors still went about their tireless work. Irene came often, at first as a nurse then an overeager investigator. She pried at his humble beginnings, marvelled at his illustrious career choice and finally queried at his decision to poison Gentle George. With lips as red as blood she spoke with a velvety purr as best to appeal to the carnal desires that had won her so many secrets.

“I suppose the days stretched out like these fucking oceans.” She remarked upon his enslavement. “Such a very long time without real honest communication, acknowledgement and… company.” The last word dripped with proposition.

Lestrade came often; his friendship or whatever bond that had put him beside Sherlock had come at odds and he did not particularly like the ocean. He was ever the first to spew his lot overboard in the morning, he took no delight in telling John. 

Weeks passed and life aboard The Carbuncle became tedious and depressing. John could smell the saltiness of the sea but still could not venture aboard the deck, infirm as he was. Sherlock, Irene one day informed him, had gone into isolation.

“He will see nor talk to nobody. Perhaps that means he is deliberating his plans rather than rushing into them like a schoolboy. I do hope he does not fail to remember that my life is on the line now too.” She had said in a huff, the tedium striking at her too.

John slept and slept until pain dulled and mobility finally began to seem possible. After such and such time, he ambled along the lower deck until he alighted upon a staircase that led towards clean, fresh and salty air. Holding a hand against the glare, he stepped up, treading deck and made himself aware of his surroundings. Three masts bearing vast sails cut across the sky of which was a gentle blue, sailors rushed to and fro, rope and net thrown over thick shoulders. John Watson took another step out onto the deck until he felt the warmth of the sun bathing achy skin. The muscles that arduous work as a slave had cultivated had slackened and he looked all the better for it; no longer an oversized chunk of flesh, he held onto a mere toned body that glistened well beneath the rays of the sun. The tens of scars and the red bandage around his shoulder, however, would forever remain a reminder of his time in irons.

“You are up.” A familiar voice stated devoid of emotion.

“I am.” John replied, searching for the man behind that voice.

“Two days out one would conjecture,” Sherlock said from somewhere above. “You will soon be walking the cobbles of your childhood.” 

He was hanging from the rigging, his black curls parachuting at the back of his skull. Sherlock looked alien in his chalkiness amidst such a bright yellow sun. He did not look down at John, kept his gaze on the horizon. John could discern the single bead of sweat that sat atop his nose, the dryness of his lips.

“Where have you been?” John asked, he, himself, seemingly searching along the horizon for an answer he knew was not forthcoming. The silence stretched out before them, became a third person in its ability to hover and cause a wedge between them.

“John!” Lestrade shouted from across the deck. “It is good to see you on your feet once more.”

The tension shattered, the moment left to gather dust in a possible history that was not this specific John's to experience. Sherlock jumped down with a flap of his long black coat, it billowed out like his own personal piratical sail. He left without another word and John followed him with his eyes until he dropped from sight.

“The man’s a monster,” Lestrade remarked as the gap closed. “Hidden in the tights of a nobleman. I pity you John.”

John turned about at that, his brow furrowed. “Why is that?” 

“You are a beholden to him, unable to craft a life of your own. I can come and go as I please. It is coin that keeps me beside him not allegiance. Not anymore.” 

He had grown unruly stubble over the weeks and stank of ale, the smell a thick miasma that encased him like a shroud. His eyes were bloodshot and unfocused. Standing opposite one another, it was stark to see their differences; John was the white innocence and Lestrade the dark underbelly. Ironic, when it was John who had laced poison into the King’s wine. Something had happened during their escape, some incorporeal wedge had arisen between him and Sherlock and Lestrade was suffering the worst from it.

John paid him no mind, his head full of a kiss that, for all it seemed, should not have happened; but played on and on nonetheless. He could almost taste it. The cold, impartial face of Sherlock as he hung from the rigging kept thwarting his recollection however. The sweet emotive man that had nurse him back to health had, in a flash, reverted to that dark angel he had first seen in General Mycroft’s camp. John Watson had hoped that Sherlock was busy, that a grander plan had consumed him and that spending time with John, although he would have liked to, was a diversion he could not have. That was not the case; his uncaring moon-face had attested to that.

Lestrade continued to talk but John only nodded to keep him sated rather than in agreement, was glad when Irene Adler sauntered onto deck and he lopped on after her. He could see her distaste at his approach even from here. It should have brought upon a smile but it did not, nothing could.

“Was it wrong?” John asked Sherlock some time later, after discovering him in Irene’s little hidey-hole. His face was like a skull, haunted and full of shadows. John wanted to reach out and touch him, make sure that there was flesh encasing that face of his. Sherlock's eyes kept him at bay, visualized a barrier of which John could never hope to invade. Those eyes scared him. 

Sherlock unwrapped himself from his cloak as if he were a chick pulling apart an egg from the inside. Then as he got to his feet, he said the only words that could have made John feel worse than he already did: “It never happened.”

John was left alone as the words resounded around inside his head, the pain amplifying with every ricochet. 

A pain far greater than bullets through shoulder did then assail him, one of the heart.


End file.
